


A gun is not discursive

by hungerpunch



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungerpunch/pseuds/hungerpunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur deals with his unrequited love by making a hitlist. Eames finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A gun is not discursive

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Leslie](http://lezzerlee.livejournal.com/), without whom this would not have come to fruition, and [K8 the Gr8](http://gollumgollum.livejournal.com/) <33
> 
> Warning for off-screen murders.

Snooping through co-worker’s belongings if left unattended is standard procedure for Eames. When Arthur stands, cracks his back, and leaves to fetch a latte, Eames seizes the opportunity.

Arthur normally takes his little moleskines with him everywhere; in a haze of thirst and sleep deprivation, he’d accidentally left his current one behind, forgotten under several manilla folders. Eames slides over to the desk and deftly lifts it. Their extractor, who is the most passive team leader Eames had ever worked under, sees and says nothing.

Whistling, he fetches his silver pack of Bensons off his own desk and goes outside, leans against the wall and lights up, taking a relaxing drag before facing the horrors that surely await him in the black book. 

Surprisingly, there are only pages of lists. Some are titled, some jotted sideways; some consist of everything surrounding Arthur at a given moment, some detail cooking ingredients. Lists of annoyances, to-do lists, even a lengthy bucket list that Eames skims, charmed to find that learning to forge, making a movie, and climbing a mountain are included. Maybe Arthur dreams a little bigger than he’s always thought.

He isn’t expecting anything special, just observing, when he happens across a list that makes his heart stop. The first name chills him, as do the following twenty-two. There is a neighboring list of dates. He stares, wondering if it is coincidence that Arthur has the names of everyone who’s ever betrayed or attacked him, and when. Half the list is crossed out in thick red ink.

Eames wanders back inside casually. He opens his laptop and quickly confirms that all the slashed names have missing person reports filed or obituaries published. In the event that bodies have been found and identified, they’ve all been declared homicides with the same modus operandi: drugged, taken to a remote location, tortured, then shot and left to bleed out. Never a trace of the killer left behind. Personal, but still professional.

He sits back, runs a hand through his hair. The men on the list aren’t the best of people in general; there could be multiple reasons they’d made it into Arthur’s moleskine. But the dates make it more than mere coincidence. On the best of days, Arthur is polite and collected, never expressing any real care for Eames, just the occasional coffee or scone. Here, though, is undeniable proof.

Eames shakes himself, frowning at his romanticism. There could be a slew of explanations that don’t include him, though that isn’t what his gut is saying. He taps a forefinger against the cover of the moleskine and glares at it, conflicted. 

He opens it back up and takes a quick snapshot of the page with his mobile, so that he can track the rest of Arthur’s progress. Just as he is pocketing the phone again, Arthur re-enters the warehouse.

He’d obviously realized he didn’t have his moleskine while he was out, as his eyes fly immediately to where it’d been on his desk. As soon as its absence is apparent, his gaze shifts to Eames, accusatory. Eames holds up the notebook readily. “Looking for this?”

Arthur sets his latte down then heads for Eames, stopping in front of him and holding his hand out. “Did you find anything interesting?” he asks.

Arthur’s not a bad actor, per se, but he’s no match for Eames, who can tell he’s frightened about Eames having his moleskine despite his calm reaction. Eames makes sure he doesn’t grin, as is his wont when he’s teasing Arthur. Instead he keeps his face straight, and looks Arthur in the eye. “A list.”

To his credit, Arthur doesn’t falter, just raises an eyebrow smoothly, keeping eye contact. “Only one? Am I that boring?” 

Eames offers the moleskine to Arthur but doesn’t let go just yet. “Hardly. But there was only one that surprised me.” He releases the moleskine and finally allows one corner of his mouth to turn up the slightest bit.

Arthur’s jaw tightens and he takes the notebook into both hands, stepping back. He tries an answering smirk but it’s too plastic to even begin to fool Eames. “I see. I would say I’ll try to do better, but you’ll never be seeing the inside of this again, Mr. Eames,” he says, airy and with none of the vitriol he would be using if he wasn’t trying to cover something up.

“Naturally,” Eames says, bringing the conversation to a close with an indulgent bow of his head. 

He’ll have to be absolutely sure before making his move.

The job wraps in a few weeks’ time, a smooth finish discounting Eames and Arthur getting mauled by the mark’s projections, which is tolerable since their extractor had already gotten the information they needed. Eames wants to grab Arthur and offer to take him to dinner, or to bed, but refrains, departing with a courteous wave. 

He goes off the grid after, deflecting the incoming offers for jobs as he sets up camp on the beautiful Madh Island. He stands out amongst the quiet, hard-working farmers in the village of Erangal, but he’s not the only tourist, and he’s taken to easily enough after a few weeks of being cordial, charming, and funneling money into several local cafes and cigar shops. The area has frequent raves that bely the rest of its quaint, traditional temperament, but Eames stays out of those, content to laze around his rented bungalow and keep tabs on Arthur.

Well, not so much keep tabs on Arthur, because that can be quite impossible, actually, but more like keep tabs on the rest of Arthur’s list. He runs scans on the remaining names every day, trying to stay as objective as possible about the whole thing. 

It’s two weeks before anything happens. Eames goes to sleep one night and when he wakes up, a man on the list has been found murdered, same m.o. as all the others. “They’re going to think you’re a serial killer,” Eames mutters aloud and clicks out of the police report before having the striking realization that the only element keeping Arthur from being precisely a serial killer is that he’s killing for vengeance. If Eames’ hunch is true. Some would argue semantics, even if it were.

Eames shrugs on a gauzy, lightweight button-down and makes his way to the Dana Paani beach where he resolutely refuses to overthink it, opting to people watch instead while sifting handfuls of sand and broken shells through his fingers.

After that, the murders occur rapidly. Even when it’s only a missing person’s report, Eames can fill in the blanks. The paycheck from their last job must have afforded Arthur enough downtime to really focus on his mission. Eames reads the news articles and imagines Arthur crossing out the names with his red pen, unable to suppress a shiver of something he can’t quite decipher: equal parts admiration and horror, perhaps.

Arthur gets towards the end of the list when there’s a stall of several weeks. Eames becomes restless and takes a series of small jobs, some not involving dreamshare at all, and takes a break from checking up on the names. What had once enthralled him, flattered him even, is starting to make him sick, bile churning at the back of his throat each time he thinks about it. 

He doesn’t know for sure if Arthur is doing this because of him, but the probability is hard to ignore, and Eames thinks that if there’s even a chance, he has to talk to Arthur about it. Get him to stop. He has no idea when he suddenly developed a conscience again, and he’s not sure he likes it, but he’s going to have to deal with it.

Eames figures the lapse in murders may signify that Arthur’s working again, so he puts his feelers out. He doesn’t get a direct line to Arthur, but he gets the number for the chemist Arthur is currently working with. Supposedly. He’s a bit dubious as he places the call to Yasmin, who Eames has worked with once or twice before. Yasmin answers quickly and is ambivalent enough, albeit confused, as Eames exchanges idle pleasantries with him. 

His tune changes when Eames asks him to put Arthur on. “Oh no, Eames, this is my job, don’t you bring your problems into it.”

“It’s not a problem, Yasmin, I just need to ask Arthur a question about a job we worked together.”

Yasmin snorts. “Fine, but god damn you if you’re lying to me.” Eames opens his mouth to reassure him but can hear Yasmin already muffling the phone with his hand or something and call out for Arthur. 

Arthur comes on the line with a wary, “Hello?”

“Arthur, it’s Eames.”

“Yasmin told me. What can I help you with?”

Eames scrapes across his lower lip with the edge of his thumbnail as he talks, improvising. “I was wondering if you’d indulge me in a meet after you wrap your job. I have an offer from a guy I’ve never heard of, involving technology I’ve never heard of. Terribly exciting, but suspicious.”

It’s watery at best, but Eames can hear Arthur’s wheels turning. “What do you need me for, exactly?” Arthur asks.

“Research, darling, you’re the best. And if you’re interested, I’d enjoy bringing someone on to the team who I can trust.”

“You trust me?” Arthur asks, ever the skeptic.

Eames resists from exposing his throat. “At least I’ve heard of you,” he answers wryly. Arthur hums. Over the phone, it’s harder to get a read on what he’s thinking or feeling, but Eames knows he must be intrigued by the new technology Eames mentioned. 

“Fine. A meet can’t hurt. But I expect payment for my time, especially if I don’t end up on-board for it.”

“Fair enough. When do you wrap?”

“Can’t say right now, but it shouldn’t be too much longer, if you can stay free for a few weeks. I’ll call you.”

Eames doesn’t bother offering Arthur his number. Arthur can find anybody. “Perfection. Thank you, Arthur.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says and then disconnects. Eames puts his phone down and rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin.

He ends up waiting for Arthur in Lünen, Germany, where he’s fairly sure Arthur will feel safe coming off his current job, which is in Bosnia. He can’t find his usual Benson & Hedges in any of the shops so he buys a few packs of Haus Bergmanns and chain-smokes his way through them while walking up and down the side of the modest river that cuts through the middle of the small town. 

A week passes when Eames returns to his hotel room one day to find Arthur there, lounging on the balcony, sunglasses on and a glass of scotch, neat, on the table next to him. 

Eames steps through the sliding glass doors. “You said you would call.”

Arthur cranes his neck up, then gestures to the chair across from him. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Eames sits. “Liar,” he tosses out lightly. 

“So are you,” Arthur says.

Eames shrugs. “By nature.”

“No, I mean,” Arthur begins, pulling his sunglasses off, “you lied to me. You’re insane if you think I bought that cock and bull about this job, Eames. What do you really want from me?”

Eames chokes back a hundred different responses to that loaded question and fishes his mobile from his pocket instead. He pulls up the photo of the list from Arthur’s moleskine and stares at it a moment before pushing it across the table to Arthur. “Recognize this?”

Arthur picks the phone up and his knuckles whiten as his grip tightens around the phone. His gaze flicks up to Eames’ face and remains there, steady but definitely on the defense. “Is this an interrogation?”

Eames holds his hands up. “Only my own, Arthur. I’m not working for anybody.”

Arthur nods, shifting back in his chair, he peers at the photo once more before sliding it back across the table to Eames. “Obviously I recognize it.” He steeples his fingertips and watches Eames with a dark yet anxious intensity. “Do you?”

Eames swallows. “Yes.”

“And?”

Eames isn’t sure when Arthur became the one asking questions, but Arthur always manages to do that; flip the situation on its head. Eames lets himself be flipped, for now. “That list is of some significance to me, let’s say. I need to know why you’re picking them off.”

“Need to know?”

“ _Want_ to know, “ Eames corrects, but not without an edge of impatience. “Stop stalling. Why are you killing these men?”

Arthur picks a piece of some thread or fuzz off his jacket sleeve and flicks it away. “They’re terrible men.”

Eames is too worked up for this. Has spent too many weeks watching and waiting and living inside his own head for this. He pushes his chair back. “Fine. If the real reason for your killing spree is, what, cleansing the community of people more criminal than you and me, then you’ll excuse me if I take my leave now.”

He’s all but one foot through the balcony doors when Arthur says his name quietly, like he almost hopes Eames won’t hear him, but Eames does. He turns around and sees Arthur’s got his eyes shut, a balled fist pressed against his mouth, as if Eames’ name had left his lips against his will. He looks pale even in the warm sunlight.

“Yes?” Eames asks, tired, tense. 

Arthur lowers his hand and opens his eyes but doesn’t look up. “Because you never did anything,” he admits. 

“What are you talking about?” Eames asks.

“To those men. They hurt you, tortured you, and you never...sought any sort of revenge.” Eames is stunned into silence, so Arthur starts filling it. “I didn’t follow you or, stalk you, if that’s what you’re upset about. I mean, if I had been anywhere near you, obviously—” he cuts himself off and licks his lips, stares at the glass of scotch he hasn’t touched. “I tend to hear everything about everything, in my position so. I just. Compiled a list.”

Eames resumes his seat, hesitant. “I just don’t understand why, I suppose,” he says. “Why me?”

Arthur looks sick. Eames has never caught him so off-guard, and he’s not even happy about it. “Please don’t ask me that,” he nearly whispers. 

Eames relents, disappointed but not willing to push it. “Okay. Okay, but you must stop, Arthur.” 

Arthur raises his head at that. “What?”

“Look, I. I’m not saying I don’t hate those men. And maybe they deserve it, I don’t know. But you don’t have to do this, I mean—please don’t do this. If I want vengeance I can take it for myself. You don’t need all that blood on your hands.”

“What if I want to?” Arthur asks, which is completely not what Eames was expecting. 

“You don’t,” Eames shakes his head. “You don’t, you’re better than that. If you think you do, you’re mistaken.”

Arthur pushes away from the table with a clatter and gets to his feet. “Because you know me so well.” 

Eames watches him skirt around the table, feels Arthur get under his skin and cause friction, just like always. “Don’t be thick, Arthur, that’s not—” 

“Oh thank you,” Arthur smiles with venom. “That’s me, just picking off the people who hurt you because I’m thick.” 

Eames stands as well. “Stop it,” he fumes. Arthur’s twisted him up like a game of cat’s cradle and he doesn’t even remember what he wants from this. “God, you just. Can’t you listen to me? I’m asking you stop,” he softens his voice and his eyes, abandoning any pretense of pride to gaze at Arthur openly, balefully. 

Arthur’s fingers have curled around the frame of the sliding door and he releases it from his clenching grip now. “Whatever you want, Eames.” And then he’s gone, so fast that Eames barely stumbles back inside in time to catch his hotel door snicking shut. Eames punches one of the crisp pillows on the bed in frustration, then packs up and checks out.

On the plane ride he crams himself right up against the window and undeniably broods, reflecting on the entirety of his relationship with Arthur. They’ve known each other longer than most people might expect, and only recently have negotiated to relatively civil, professional grounds. The gargantuan feuds that would clear the rest of the team out of the workspace have tempered into reliable bickering, and where they once repelled away from each other like magnets, they now fit themselves together like clockwork, using each other’s strengths and weaknesses to streamline the job. Grudging respect has been built from a foundation of irritation and, at times, genuine contempt, and from that a sort of faith has unfurled. A formidable pair, most would concede, they’d just begun building a reputation when, well, this happened. Now he’s not sure he’ll hear from Arthur ever again.

Eames avoids jobs with Arthur for some time after that, still thrown by Arthur’s behavior, afraid of his unspoken motives, and unable to fully calculate his own feelings about it all. At least, Eames is _trying_ to avoid him, but one day he walks into a job and there’s Arthur, already scribbling notes on a whiteboard. Before he can say anything the extractor introduces Arthur as Maxwell, an alias Arthur has never used before to Eames’ knowledge. Eames keeps his face carefully blank as he moves forward to shake Arthur’s hand, purposefully keeping his grip light.

Their supposed status of "new acquaintances" doesn’t stop them from quarreling fiercely, as they haven’t in at least a year, and when the extractor wearily calls for a break, Eames realizes that even their quarreling is off. It’s loud but feels muted, timid words at big volume because they’re both hiding things. They’re not fighting about the job. Not really. And that’s new.

He corners Arthur outside. Arthur is smoking, and that’s new too. Usually he goes to buy coffee or a protein bar, or steps out for a moment of peace or to make a phone call. Never cigarettes.

“Look,” Arthur begins as soon as Eames is beside him. “I’m sorry I tricked you, I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Arthur sighs a plume of smoke out. “I guess I wanted to make the case for our working relationship—”

“Did we have any other kind?” Eames cuts in.

“Two sides to every coin,” Arthur says, visibly trying to stay calm, his throat and jaw flexing against his words. “Anyway. We...we did good work together. Exceptional work. You know that. I think it would be silly, idiotic, really, to waste that.”

Eames has numerous snide comebacks but tamps down on them, allowing a moment of silence to bloom between them instead. He doesn’t understand where his own anger is coming from—the last time he saw Arthur he felt desperate, frustrated, and irritated, it’s true. But more than that, sad, and unsatisfied—not spiteful. He knows that if he drives Arthur off forever, he’ll be even angrier. That's not what he wants, though fuck if he can parse what he does want.

The silence tempers Arthur a little; Eames can sense him back away from the bit he was chomping at, though there’s no hiding the undercurrent of anxiety running through him. Eames considers it strange how often he apparently makes Arthur nervous, when by all rights Eames should be bloody terrified of Arthur. Maybe he is.

When a minute passes and Eames still hasn’t a coherent thought to verbalize, Arthur speaks again. “If you want me off this job, I’ll leave right now,” he says, voice low, and for the first time Eames hears a certain exhaustion coloring Arthur’s words. 

“That sounds irresponsible,” Eames murmurs, tilting his head back to peer out into the blue middle-distance of the clear sky above them. 

“I have a list made of points for hire that I’d recommend. Some a little green but no bad apples so far. It wouldn’t take long to replace me.” Arthur’s voice is just empty enough to signal he’s trying for it, and trying hard. Eames hates that this conversation feels unbalanced, rehearsed by Arthur while Eames has to hit the ground running.

“Didn’t know you cared to be so considerate,” is what comes out of his mouth next, instead of anything like Arthur being impossible to replace, but he can’t take it back.

The barb makes Arthur bristle beside him, then shift off of the wall, crush the nearly-finished cigarette beneath his shoe, and stuff his hands into his pockets. “On the contrary,” Arthur says in a polished tone, any vulnerability snatched back and quickly masked, “I care about all my team members. Their well-being affects the jobs, after all.”

Eames gazes at him from beneath half-lidded eyes. _But you didn’t kill eighteen people for anybody else’s well-being_ , he thinks. The sunshine sinking into his bones makes him feel heavy and lazy, despite the cacophony rising within him. “Right,” he says. “The _jobs_. Of course.” He offers a smile, finely tweaked enough so that Arthur will be able to tell easily that it’s fake. 

For a fleeting moment Arthur’s face draws in dejection, but it clears almost instantaneously and Arthur nods. “Yes. And it’s obvious now I’d only impede the progress of this particular one, so I will be leaving,” his voice is tight and controlled. “Good luck, Mr. Eames.” Eames watches Arthur’s retreating back and feels distinctly like he’s gone off some edge. He turns and kicks the wall.

Many things happen in the time before they next meet, including Moscow, where Eames drinks a fifth of vodka alone, ends up fully-clothed in his empty bathtub, and comes to the conclusion of what he’d been frightened: that there can really only be one reason Arthur had been hell-bent on revenge for Eames. That reason must be love. As soon as he admits it to himself, he says it aloud, “Love,” and the word feels like broken glass on his tongue. Love, and the fact that Arthur either didn’t know it or didn’t want to own up to it or was repulsed by it.

Also, Mal dies.

Eames can’t say it surprises him—she was fucking crazy. Lovely, yes; beautiful body, whimsical personality, magnetic, intelligent, but underneath it all the woman was like Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun and died in the ocean when his wings melted—she knew the risks and chose to ignore them, too full of pride and selfish as usual; never thinking twice of anyone unless they could help her get what she wanted. It was always going to happen. He's more surprised Dom didn't go too, for as tight as he was wrapped up in her cheshire cat grins and school girl daydreams, but Dom always did care more about the children than Mal. So much for motherly instincts.

He doesn’t go to the funeral because he knows it’ll be a shit-show, what with Dom being on the run, Arthur on his heels. But, he thinks, that even if it weren’t, even if Mal had died of natural causes with no blame falling on anyone, he probably wouldn’t go.

He sends a bouquet of flowers and an unsigned sympathy card to Marie and Miles and lets that be that. He ignores the rumors swirling around Mal’s death; gives himself a day to drink and smoke and let various memories wash over him (she was foolish and sometimes fiendish, but they had been friends, once), and then he picks himself up and goes on—grieving isn’t worth the energy it if it has to be done alone, he decides.

Eames excels at compartmentalizing, so when Dom Cobb tracks him down in Mombasa, he figures he can deal with Arthur much the same way he dealt with Mal.

Unfortunately, it seems, he has overestimated his capabilities because when he arrives at the warehouse in Paris and finds that Arthur isn’t there—even though he had to have known Eames was coming back with Dom, Yusuf in tow—the first thing he feels is his fear curdling into anger. It’s illogical, he knows; Arthur is just getting other preparations taken care of, it’s not personal.

“Must be out with Ariadne,” Dom says, shucking his coat off and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

Eames snaps his gaze over to Dom. “Ariadne?” he asks, making sure his voice is buttered up with curiosity and not, well, jealousy.

“New architect,” Dom says. “She’s really something, Eames.”

“Of course,” Eames muses, then goes over to one of the empty desks and sits. He folds his hands and tells himself to get a bloody grip. Mentally, he reviews the emotions he’s been through since this whole thing started: shock, disbelief, a bit of gratitude, a bit of amusement, admiration, then a downward spiral of uncertainty, guilt, fear, anger, frustration. Now he’s upset that Arthur isn’t there to welcome him in the door with roses and a kiss? For fuck’s sake.

When Arthur does arrive, he doesn't cold shoulder Eames like Eames thought he might. Eames is, in fact, the first person Arthur looks at, even holds his gaze as he strides over to him. "Eames," he says, and that's all he says, firm but quiet, just for the two of them, extending his hand in greeting.

Eames shakes his hand, unfairly tongue-tied at how, even with dreadful under eye circles, Arthur is gorgeous. He waits for Arthur to say something else but he doesn't, just nods his head, once, turns, and walks away. 

Before Eames can get proper fuming about whatever _that_ was (besides Arthur making the first move and thereby absolving himself of responsibility concerning which foot they start out on), a short, slender young woman slides up to him. He hadn't noticed her and tries not to let that show. When she smiles (straight, pearly white teeth that are likely the product of braces, denoting parents who care and have money) and introduces herself as Ariadne, the architect, he'd already figured. Still, he has to suppress the urge to sucker punch Dom for recruiting a bloody college kid. He smiles indulgently when she reads his expression and tells him she's in grad school, but it doesn't make him feel any better. Even if she's good—even if she's excellent—she's too young to play in this sandbox. 

(Eames wonders when the fuck he started caring about everybody’s sodding virtue and quality of life and various other aspects of morals and ethics and _bullshit_.)

It's not his show to run, though, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

Inception ends up being a clusterfuck of a job; he finds (or maybe creates) friction with everyone save Ariadne, who he wants to influence as little as possible so keeps his space from, and Yusuf, who he only gets along with because they can both acknowledge that they are actually dirty rotten bastards.

He takes it all as seriously as he thinks he needs to, fluctuating between butting heads, unnecessarily and unhelpfully, with Arthur over every single detail and assuming mostly unchallenged leadership of the team when it comes to formulating the plan. 

It’s only when the truth comes out, after Saito’s been shot, that Eames discovers he did not take anything seriously enough. 

He’s furious with everyone—Dom, for being either an incredibly single-minded, driven father, or fucking psychotic, or both; Yusuf, for being more of a dirty rotten _easily bought_ bastard than Eames had originally suspected; Arthur, for not diving all the way to the bottom of his god forsaken well of research and resources; himself, for not picking up on the fact that Robert Fischer would have been militarized despite spending weeks shadowing him; Saito, for getting fucking shot; Ariadne for simply being there, for being one more thing to compromise. Eames grits his teeth and works past the urge to strangle Dom.

He’s never come so close to the ugly face of Limbo before, but Dom’s right: they can’t sit still, or go back. The only way to go is forward. He watches Dom and Arthur leave to razz Fischer up and attempts to swiftly rearrange his priorities. 

Inception was always going to be a big deal for him. The last time he tried he had neither the skill nor the unlimited resources of this particular team. They may be a little improvisational, they may be strangers, they may be led by a man entirely consumed by a shade of his dead wife, but they are a bloody talented team. Even Eames can admit that. But what started as a great challenge, and the chance of a lifetime, has turned into a life or death situation. Perhaps not literal death, but waking up without your memories? Your history, your knowledge, your personality all gone? It sounds like death to him. The weight of panic fringed by grim acceptance settles heavy in Eames’ gut, chest, and mind, replacing any of the happy adrenaline that comes with solving a difficult puzzle.

Eames settles down at the provided vanity and begins to apply Browning’s forge, getting lost in other thoughts all the while.

Contemplating mortality was something he used to like to do when he was younger; before dreamshare, before the military, before college, even, when he was a scrawny teenager, sprawled in his mother’s garden behind the house, smoking cigarettes and then burying the stubs in the dirt so she wouldn’t find them. He used to think about life and death a lot back then, what his purpose on Earth was, and he used to think he was cool for doing so.

Now, however, he only has so much energy to give, and none to be spared for excessively philosophical ponderings. He hasn’t given his inevitable death any serious consideration in, it seems, quite a while. The prospect seems fresh to him, clinging like soft soil to the rock he’s turned over in his mind. _Am I prepared to die?_ he asks himself while he cries out for Dom’s orchestration in Browning’s scratchy bass. _Have I done everything I wanted to, in this life?_

The answer, he thinks, getting up and letting himself be manhandled into the interrogation room, is probably the same for most people: _no_. 

_What can I change, then? What can I change right now, here, to make this easier?_ Eames turns and looks, with Browning’s eyes, at Arthur. 

Arthur’s face is hidden beneath a mask, and he exits the room shortly after Eames arrives, but that’s all it takes for Eames to know.

Eames would draw it out, Eames would have Arthur come to him, would make him explain everything carefully, thoroughly, and fucking apologize, too, if they had time. But they don’t. In fact, Eames has mere minutes in Arthur’s presence from this point on. He has to lay it out for himself, what’s more important: his pride, or the chance for Arthur, or some part of him? 

After Fischer’s been knocked out and they’re all inside the van, preparing to drop down another level, Eames leans forward in his seat. “Arthur,” he murmurs, a hair’s breadth away from the pale shell of Arthur’s ear, flushed coral at the tip with exhilaration. 

If at all possible, Arthur’s shoulders stiffen more than they already were. “Mr. Eames?” he asks, just as softly, though he doesn’t look up from where he’s swabbing the skin of his forearm down (a precaution that’s not really necessary once they’re already dreaming, but habits have their comfort, Eames knows).

“I think I, well, we, may have been a bit foolish, and Arthur, I really—” Arthur cuts Eames off by turning around in his seat just enough to press a palm against Eames’ mouth.

“I don’t know why you’re telling me anything right now,” Arthur says, locking his gaze with Eames’. “You can just tell me later, after we all wake up.” Arthur’s eyes are sharp, full of meaning, but his fingers tremble against Eames’ lips and Eames realizes that Arthur is as terrified as he is. 

Eames inhales deep through his nose and leans back, resisting the urge to press a parting kiss to Arthur’s nervously clammy palm. “Yes, darling, of course. When we wake up.” 

Eames tries to swallow down another dose of panic; it sticks in his throat like a knife. He doesn't know if he believes Arthur. He doesn't know if Arthur believes Arthur.

Which is why he's so surprised when he wakes up, lungs full of stale, recycled airplane air, memories all intact. He hadn't entered Limbo even for a moment. Saito had though. Eames looks to him now, feels the phantom pressure of pushing the grenade into Saito's slack hand; the last touch they'd shared.

Saito's open eyes look haunted for a moment, a man out of time and place, before they fill with realization as he re-associates his unfamiliar surroundings with a memory so long ago it'd almost slipped through his fingers—the sensation of barely catching something precious, invaluable, as it falls from a great height. Saito forgoes what could have been a justifiably prolonged period of disbelief and sits up, rumpled, to grab the phone. He looks only at Dom, operating on the energy of some unarguable truth he'd kept within his heart all the while.

Once everyone seems to be bodily and mentally intact, everything, the entire job, becomes secondary. Eames shifts in his seat and seeks out Arthur, but Arthur's chair is empty. Eames unbuckles himself despite the flight attendant's protests that they are descending. Instead he asks her if she's seen the gentleman in the last seat wander off anywhere. Frowning, she points towards the restrooms and warns him to hurry.

"Arthur?" he calls just loud enough to carry through the plastic door, giving it three knocks as well. When instead of getting a reassuring reply that he's just taking a piss, Eames hears a heavy thud, he scrabbles at the door handle ineffectually. "Arthur, open the door, please," he requests, voice strained.

It takes a moment, but he hears an unassuming click and swings the door open hastily.

In first class the bathrooms are larger than in coach, but they're not so big that Eames doesn't feel a tad awkward squeezing two men of average size inside it. Regardless, he drops down on his haunches, trying to take up as little space as possible as he squats, next to Arthur, who is slumped against the wall of the bathroom, uncaring that he is soiling the bottom of his trousers with a plethora of germs.

Arthur's eyes are open, albeit downcast, and he is pale, unsteady looking. "Arthur?" Eames reaches out to brush a lock of Arthur's hair off his forehead, back into place. "Too much turbulence?" he asks, giving Arthur the chance to joke his way out of whatever vulnerability has overcome him.

Arthur shakes his head. He's got a wad of toilet paper in his hands and he's tearing it to pieces with quivering fingers. "I was in zero-g," he whispers, cringing. "I was in zero-g and I. I had to do everything right, _right_ , or you’d all be in limbo. I set a bomb, _had_ to, exploded the level...and I didn't know if any of you were even coming back." It's the most neurotic, emotional confession Eames has ever heard from Arthur.

"I let Ariadne and Cobb go down into Limbo," Eames breathes. "I could only hope..." he trails off. "I watched Fischer achieve catharsis while knowing Mal was probably ripping Ariadne to pieces."

Arthur makes a restricted noise, an aborted sigh of some kind, and leans his head back against the wall. "It's been a rough sixteen hours for everyone," he rasps, and closes his eyes.

Eames wants to scoot into his space and hold him, but the bathroom is just not big enough for that maneuver. Instead, he takes Arthur's hand into his own, divests it of the shredded toilet paper, and presses a chaste, lingering kiss to each white knuckle. Just as he gets to Arthur's pinky, the flight attendant bangs on the bathroom door and irately requests they take their seats. At _once_.

They both stand, shaky, helping each other up, and exit the bathroom, ignoring the attendant's cross, arched eyebrows and angrily flushed cheeks.

"Never in my life," she mutters under her breath, and Eames lets out a clipped, manic laugh. He stands aside while Arthur takes his seat, then passes him, squeezing his shoulder briefly as he goes.

Everything between that moment and when Arthur stops him in baggage with a, "Sir, I think you dropped this," is white noise, even Dom getting through customs. Eames recovers enough to take the black book from Arthur with a small smile and gracious thanks, and then they're parting ways.

In his taxi, he tries to calm his nerves as he opens the moleskine that Arthur had once told him he'd never see the inside of again (distantly, he acknowledges this is probably a different moleskine, but that's not the point).

He tries to take his time with each page but he can practically feel the heat at the back of the book, burning his hands. It's just a wild guess, just an assumption, but Eames is pretty sure Arthur wouldn't make him dig through each page for elaborate clues, not unless he was planning this far, far in advance, which Eames doubts.

He flips to the very back, and there on the last page, written in small script, like it's trying to hide, is the same exact list from the other moleskine, the same names crossed out, the same four names left untouched. Scribbled to the left, in fresher ink, is a small side note: 

_It's your call_.  
And below that, an address for somewhere in Canada.  
And below that: _Two weeks_. 

Two weeks, just enough time to escort Dom home and see the kids, and then go underground, Eames assumes.

Eames doesn't even have to think about it. He takes the most indirect route to the address, changes continents twice and countries six or seven, and then endures a series of long bus rides that overshoot and then backtrack. Finally, he winds up in front of an old firehouse, clearly no longer in use. He breaks in to find the interior renovated and refurbished, decked out with simple, vintage furniture and smelling of old books and paint.

He spends the remainder of the two weeks lying on Arthur's maroon chaise lounge on the second floor, toeing the threadbare oriental rug, smiling at all the spiderweb cracks in the robin's egg blue walls and loving, as he picks up Arthur's copy of _Calvin & Hobbes_, that Arthur can still surprise him. He makes sure to drink all of Arthur's coffee and leave mug-ring stains on the coffee table, the yellow paint of which is peeling badly. 

He takes hour-long showers in the locker room that Arthur has tried and failed to make look more personal; he slides down the fire pole a thousand times; he putters around the kitchen on the first floor, ignoring the state-of-the-art kitchen appliances and eating cereal instead. He abandons his loose trousers for a pair of jeans he dug out of a drawer that are too long in the legs and obscenely tight in the thighs. He doesn't bother to shave or to brush his teeth more than once a day or do laundry or wear underwear. 

He drops an expensive looking glass on accident and watches in mild fascination as it shatters immediately across the cement floor; he doesn’t feel a shred of guilt as he sweeps up the shards. He tries on a probably long-forgotten pair of Arthur’s shoes, amused to find his feet smaller than Arthur’s, wiggling his toes around the spaces that Arthur has worn down with his travel.

He feels at peace, or, at least, as much at peace as he can while teetering on the edge of a confrontation with Arthur.

When Arthur does come, it’s half as climactic as Eames was expecting. 

Arthur walks in one morning with a white plastic bag of groceries in one hand, plastic twisting tight round his fingers. He pauses to take in Eames, who is paralyzed by some unnameable fear near the coffee machine, and smiles a small smile. “Glad you came,” Arthur says before moving to the opposite side of the kitchen where he proceeds to get a plate down. 

Eames, who didn’t know what he _thought_ would happen, doesn’t move, lips pursing and eyes blinking rapidly as though it could clear his baffled mind. Arthur asks, “Are you wearing my jeans?”

Eames looks down at himself, bereft of shirt and boxers and socks. “Yes,” he says, over the rustle of Arthur’s grocery bag. “I would apologize, but I’m not sorry.” 

Arthur makes some noncommittal noise that Eames imagines goes with a shrug, but he can’t seem to get himself to turn around to look. “If looking like a stripper is what makes you happy.” 

Eames forces himself to pry his fingers one at a time off the handle of the coffee pot. “Flatterer,” he responds, distracted and dark. He finally gets his body to cooperate, turning around and leaning back against the counter, arms crossing over his broad chest. He watches as Arthur, without looking, eases open a drawer to his right and plucks a long, sharp knife from it. The familiarity of this interaction, Arthur and this space, as foretold by this single gesture is greater than Eames has seen nearly anywhere else. 

Arthur begins to cut the fruit he’s brought out of the bag. “This isn’t a safe house,” Eames guesses. 

The sudden tension in Arthur’s shoulder blades is easy to hide in between one cut of an apple and the next, but Eames spots it. “No,” Arthur admits slowly.

“You live here, full stop,” Eames presses. 

“As much as I can,” Arthur agrees, his voice remaining neutral.

Eames mulls that over in silence until Arthur is finished cutting all his fruit and beckons Eames out to the kitchen table. “Sit,” he says, so Eames does, wishing he’d poured himself a cup of coffee after all.

Arthur’s picked a fare of lush strawberries and golden apples, red grapes and some sort of melon. He offers the plate towards Eames but Eames declines, a quick downward pull of his lips marking his disinterest. He isn’t hungry. 

He’d be lying if he said watching Arthur eat fruit wasn’t slightly more interesting. Most people eat fruit with a more hands-on approach than they eat anything else, letting their lips and fingers become damp and shiny with juice, which they then sometimes lick off rather than wipe with a napkin. Arthur is no exception; he starts with a strawberry, plunging the tip of his thumb into the dimpled flesh of it to cleave its stem and leaves from it, flicking the greenery away deftly before forcing his thumb deeper, splitting the large strawberry in two. He brings one half to his mouth and takes a bite, sucking at the tart quality of the fruit before lowering it. He then returns his index finger to push sweet, stray droplets into his mouth, quickly lapping the lingering tang from the pad of his fingertip. 

“So,” Arthur says, eyebrows raising as he speaks, his eyes fastened on the second half of the strawberry.

Eames shakes himself, ashamed to find his mouth has fallen carelessly open. He drops his gaze and clenches his fists, his hands desperate for something to fiddle with. He forces them into his lap where they stay still for all of five seconds before his fingers are toying with the frayed hem of the jeans’ pocket. He wishes he had a shirt on. 

“I said that we would talk later, after we woke up,” Arthur says. He looks directly Eames. “Do you still want to talk?”

While Eames feels awkward now, overexposed and unprepared, almost shy beneath Arthur’s undivided attention, he only has to recall the moment he learned they couldn’t shoot themselves out of the dream; recalls the awful sensation in his gut, as if it had fallen out, when he realized he might never parse whatever this beast between he and Arthur actually is.

It’s different, though, here. Safe. Awake. The courage that the panic had given him has drained from him these past two weeks, so he elects a different path. “The names,” he rasps. He takes a moment to clear his throat. “You gave me the list. You said, or, rather, wrote, that it is my call,” he forces himself to maintain eye contact. “What do you mean?”

Arthur’s finished one stawberry during the silence and now pops a grape into his mouth, chewing steadily while he thinks. “There are four left, as you know. I did stop when you asked me,” he says. “I thought, perhaps, well...I don’t know what I thought. That we might finish them together, if you like.” He picks a cube of melon from his plate and nibbles it, ignoring the trail of juice trickling down into his palm. 

Eames leans forwards, bracing his weight on his elbows and buries his face in his hands. His stomach churns. “Arthur, that’s not what I want,” he moans. He spreads his fingers and peers through them, watches Arthur’s face.

“Is there something that you do want?” Arthur asks, inquisitive, nearly innocent despite the topic of their conversation. Like he would genuinely do anything Eames might ask. 

“Why did you do this?” Eames counters with a question. “I must know, Arthur,” he practically begs. 

Arthur’s face twists angrily for a moment before smoothing out; he can tell exactly what Eames is getting at, he’s perhaps upset at being blindsided, at having control of the situation taken from him. He takes up a slice of apple and snaps it crisply in two, but makes no move to eat it. “I suppose, Eames, it’s because I care for you,” he says, sounding absolutely wretched, as if this were some confession, seeking penance. As though he thinks Eames will disapprove. “I suppose...” he trails, words hovering, “I like you quite a lot.” Arthur drops the broken apple slice back onto the plate and rubs his fingertips together idly, turning his head aside so he won’t risk catching Eames’ eyes.

Eames is torn. _Why would you do this?_ he wants to demand. _Don’t you know what caring means in this field? The more you care the weaker you are._ His pride suffers, too, at Arthur’s word choice: “like.” Just “like?” It burns, a bit, to feel as though Arthur’s equivocating him with a schoolboy crush. Then he catches himself, considers the possibility that Arthur might not know even know the extent or strength of his affection for Eames, or perhaps is afraid of it. He feels his cheeks flush as he inwardly reprimands himself for being so presumptuous, and so contradictory—cursing Arthur for his foolish emotions in the same breath that he wishes for more, more, more.

Still there is another part of him, a stronger, larger part, that thrills to hear this; it’s fueled by the same heart of him that nearly collapsed when it admitted to him that it needed—that he needed—Arthur and whatever truth he carried before the end, before death or anything like it. 

He reflects once more on his younger self, the one who secretly smoked amongst his mother’s roses; the one who was so unhappy as he toyed with Nihilism. The one who was desperate for someone to love, to prove his cynicism wrong, to take away the stinging ache of the loneliness specific to adolescence. He remembers growing older, eighteen, and fit to burst with how ready to give himself to someone he was. 

Eames is a very different man today.

But perhaps, not that different.

He observes every line of Arthur’s body, fraught with tension and twitching with anxiety as he undoubtedly waits for Eames to verbalize a variety of offenses. Eames isn’t so much offended, but he finds he still has questions he wants answers to. “How can you be so certain?” he asks, his voice rough as it disrupts the hush. 

Arthur picks up quick. “That I like you?” At Eames’ nod, he continues, “I may not be an expert, but I can learn a lot about a man just by watching, same as you.” 

“And what have you learned about me?”

“You can’t expect me to show all my cards,” Arthur says, grinning nervously. “Not when there’s nothing in it for me.”

“There is,” Eames replies without hesitation.

“Is it a pony? Because I’ll settle for nothing less,” Arthur says, trying to joke, but it’s brittle, and Eames can tell he’s bracing himself.

It still makes Eames laugh, a short but surprised sound of genuine mirth. “No, Arthur, sorry to disappoint.” One of his hands goes up to scratch through the scruff on his jaw. “You think you know me?” he asks.

Arthur’s eyes are cautious, or perhaps truly frightened. It’s a foreign look on him, and Eames isn’t sure if he loathes it or delights in knowing he can put it there. “Not as much as I wish I did,” he hedges. 

Eames reaches forward and snags a piece of the broken apple, popping it in his mouth. He takes a minute to chew, watching Arthur fidget as he waits for Eames to speak. Eames swallows. “Would you like to?”

Arthur’s lips part slightly, unbidden, and he struggles for words a moment before nodding emphatically. “Very much.”

Eames grins. “All right, then.”

After Eames makes himself look less like a stripper, they go for a walk, visiting first Arthur’s local grocer where Eames tries to replace the coffee he drank and Arthur adamantly refuses to let him. 

After a long day of reliving inception and Eames asking about Cobb’s kids and Arthur discovering the coffee stains Eames left and the glass he broke, Arthur makes them a hearty salad for dinner. He couples it with fresh French bread, topped with melted goat cheese and herbs. It’s delicious. Better than cereal. Arthur doesn’t ask Eames to leave, afterwards, so Eames stays.

In the days following, they exchange stories from their lives, explain their childhoods, reminisce on jobs they’ve done together. They inquire as to each other’s favorite things—movies, books, foods—and argue about various art movements and politics and some religion. It’s not so much the exchange of information that Eames desires. It’s more the atmosphere they’re creating, the rhythm that they settle into, the trust they nurture. 

On the third night, Arthur steers them to a dark dive bar, where the Friday night special is $3 Maker’s Mark. They both get hammered, and Eames spends all night trying to hide a stiff one while thinking of peeling Arthur out of his pretty clothes. He’s never needed liquid courage to fuck someone, though, and he doesn’t intend to start now. Especially when it strikes him that when he does get Arthur into bed, it won’t be just fucking. He starts to drown the sudden sentimentality in another shot of bourbon before thinking that Arthur probably deserves it. That Eames himself probably deserves it too. He finishes the shot to not being a hard, old prick anymore. 

On the fifth night, at a very late hour, he watches, from around the corner, as Arthur has a staring match with the last page of his current moleskine. Arthur rubs the corner of the page between two fingertips and chews his lower lip as he battles with himself. 

_You needed somewhere to put your love before, something to_ do _with it_ , Eames realizes. _But I’m here now._ Still, he can’t make the choice for Arthur, so he stays in the shadows. When Arthur finally grips the page and tears it out with sudden fervor, then begins to shred it, Eames nods to himself before sidling stealthily down the hall, glad that reason has trumped madness.

On the sixth night, Eames pushes a dollop of chocolate mousse into Arthur’s mouth with his thumb, then his tongue follows, and then he takes Arthur to bed, and then he takes Arthur apart. He marvels at this curious creature who would have loved him for so long in silence, and he wonders, as he swallows Arthur’s feverish moans, how long Arthur has wanted this, but figures it’d be cruel to both of them to ask. When Arthur arches his back and runs his nails down Eames’ shoulders, Eames stops thinking and allows himself to be consumed; entranced entirely by Arthur’s loveliness and his sharp edges and his eagerness all at once.

On the seventh morning, Eames wakes to Arthur perched on the edge of the bed, breakfast tray in his lap. When he sees Eames is awake, he pushes it towards him, ducking his blushing face towards his chest. Eames had thought he’d seen everything last night, but he gapes at Arthur’s pinking cheeks and doubts that now. 

“Thank you, Arthur,” Eames says, the first thing he’s said since he cursed his way through orgasm.

After, he pulls Arthur into the shower room with him, frowning when no number of kisses smoothes the nervous pinch between Arthur’s eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” he asks, keeping calm, palming the angle of Arthur’s jaw in his large hand, gentle.

Arthur leans into his hand first, then into his neck, his eyelashes fluttering against Eames’ pulse. Though not unwelcome, it’s the most kittenish, childlike behavior Arthur’s exhibited in all this time. Eames’ concern ratchets up. “Are you going to stay?” Arthur whispers. Eames is not a fool. He hears everything Arthur really means in those five words. He doesn’t want to dwell on what Arthur must think last night was—some sort of test, a trial, as if he were a car, or product, that Eames wanted to try before purchasing. 

He gathers Arthur into his arms, hauls him under the steaming spray of the shower, and runs a hand through Arthur’s hair. “For as long as you’ll let me,” Eames answers, hoping Arthur hears in between his words as well. His nerves buzz like livewires under his skin, the truth and certainty of his statement electrifying him. 

“That could be a long time,” Arthur warns. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Eames says. Arthur doesn’t bother to hide his smile, stretched wide against Eames’ neck.


End file.
